flare gun
by All Hail The Brain
Summary: It's not a spark. It's not a firework. She doesn't know what to call it but she absolutely, positively hates it. / / Charlotte calls it a flare. What in hell does that mean? {evcy} oneshot


**I**t's 5 o'clock. I'm here, so what are you up to, Lucy?" Crap. He's suspicious. She'd almost let herself forget the truth behind the nickname Brett slapped onto him.

"Don't be so _suspicious,_ I don't hate you for getting Brett to dump me—" lie, that's a filthy lie; she _does_ hate you, just a little, thank you very much "—Kendra just said she wants to thank you in person. I'm simply helping to bring people together." It's like poison on her tongue but _damn_ is she a good actress. She must be. There's no way he'd look _that convinced_ if she wasn't.

"Thanks, Lucy. I'm glad we can all finally be friends," she wonders for a second if that's a smile tugging on his lips. But she has other things on her agenda, other priorities, like getting Brett back.

"Oh, _please,_ you make it so easy," she smiles, taking his hands. But what—is—that?

It's not a spark.

It's not a firework.

She doesn't know _what_ to call it but she absolutely, positively _hates it._ She wants it to _go away_ as quickly as possible. Her hands are away from his as quickly as she can manage and she's strutting off like she's on a goddamn catwalk the next second.

It—whatever the hell "it" is—stays. Burning. Lingering. Taunting her. And, dear _God,_ _what_ is it? She has to know. She _can't_ not know what it is!

_What _is it and _why_ did _Evan Goldman_ make her feel it? She shouldn't have grabbed his hands. _Why_ did she grab his hands? She isn't a touchy feely person. She hates hugs, she shivers when that _hobbit_—Eddie—gets _near_ her, she's _revolted_ by her parents kissing her head, she rarely even links arms with Kendra and Charlotte (and sometimes Molly and Cassie). So _what in hell_ possessed her to take his hands?

Did it just feel like the right thing to do? Was it the right body language? Did it send the right message?

_Wait._ Did _he_ feel that _not a spark or firework but something __electric and explosive _thing too? She has to know. She has to. He _had_ to have felt _something._ Some _weird, disturbing_ chemistry there.

But she likes Brett! Why is she obsessing over this?

"Because it's _important,_" she hisses.

"What's important?" Charlotte. With loose lips and itchy trigger fingers (not in the _blam! _gunshot way, but in the _taptaptap!_ texting way). Charlotte who knows _all about_ boys. And is in between spilling about the Kendra—Evan rumor. With something that big, would Charlotte even bother with some weird, disturbing _not a spark or firework but something electric and explosive thing_ Lucy felt when she held Evan's hand for a second?

She hesitates. She can just say, "none of your business" and be on with it or she can try and put it in words.

Charlotte's eyebrow arches. Ugh. Lucy hates when she does that weird little eyebrow dance.

"This _weird,__ disturbing_ … _Thing_ I felt when Evan grabbed me to ask me what the history homework is," she improvises. It's better than Charlotte knowing what _really_ happened.

"What _weird, disturbing thing?_" The curly haired girl jumps on the morsel of gossip.

"Well, it wasn't a spark or a firework but it was kind of electric and explosive—what would you call that?" Her own pale hand falls on Lucy's hip.

"… A flare?" She shrugs.

"A flare?" _Lucy's_ eyebrow arches.

"Like a flare gun," Charlotte explains.

"Well, what the hell does it _mean?_" The tall girl almost snaps. Charlotte may be her friend (and a surprisingly good one at that) but she has no patience for this. She simply _has_ to know what that strange _thing_ means.

"Do you … _Like like_ him? I mean, that would just be, like, oh, my God, since _Kendra_ is cheating on Brett with _Evan_ so, like, if _you _had a thing for him—especially since you and Brett used to date until _Evan_ got him to dump you and you and _Kendra_ are BFFs—it would just—oh, my God!" Charlotte squeals just a little.

"I _don't _like like, _Evan!_" And maybe she's just a little _too_ quick to say that.

"Really?" Charlotte giggles.

"Really." Lucy deadpans, glowering a little.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," she giggles, "I said that right, right?"

"Oh, shut up," the pale girl snaps before stalking off. _I can't believe she actually quoted Shakespeare _correctly_ while insinuating that I _like like_ Evan! I mean, since when does she know Shakespeare!?_

* * *

Brett punches Evan. Square in the nose. A pang of guilt hits her. And again when she sees Kendra's face.

"Come on, Lucy." Should she? Maybe Charlotte was right about the flare gun. She wishes Charlotte would stop making that face—this decision would be so much easier.

But her legs move on their own and wait! Can't she rush to Evan's side and call Brett an ass and maybe even be friends with Patrice again?

...

She can't.

That stupid, stupid feeling comes back—flare—and she almost screams. It's so, so awful and wonderful and she wants it gone!

_Why_ won't it _leave?_ She hates it.

Tingling and electric and strange. Unique. Original.

And still there when she slumps down on the carpeting of her bedroom.

"I hate this. I hate him," she mutters. She pulls her knees up, examining her hands. Pale. Slender. Kind of small. Tingling. That weird, disturbing flare gun-esque _thing _that he makes her feel. She still wants to know—she still doesn't know—if he feels that too.

She could ask. She could get his number so she could ask.

Should she?

She's dialing Charlotte's number before she knows what she's doing. "_Charlotte,_" she coos.

"Yello," Charlotte chirps back.

"Listen, I need a favor," she says—and yes, she needs a lot of favors right now. It crosses her mind that she has no idea if she and Kendra are still best friends and that she doesn't really want to be with Brett for some reason and that, dear God, she wants to be best friends with Patrice again. All because of that stupid flare gun feeling thingy.

"Anything, what'd'ya need, Luce?" The other girl giggles. She does that a lot.

"The Brain's number—don't even start. I told him the wrong pages for the history homework and I need to correct him," she lies. Again. How many is that today? Fifteen? Sixteen? Too many lies for one day.

"Whatever you say. Just give me, like, a minute. I'll get it for you, lates," she declares.

"Great. Text it to me, Char," Lucy smiles just a little. She can sort everything else out later. Hopefully.

Her phone is buzzing soon enough. She dials the number—maybe she adds him as a contact—and he answers on the third ring.

"Hello?" He sounds worn out. Another pang of guilt.

"Evan?" She doesn't know why she thought this would be a good idea.

"Lucy? What do you want?" He sounds bitter, cold. She doesn't blame him.

"It's … Did you feel a weird, disturbing flare gun-esque thingy when I grabbed your hand?" Her voice squeaks. She didn't know she could talk that high.

It's so painfully quiet. She wouldn't be surprised if you could take a knife and cut through the awkward.

"Um … Er … Yeah," he murmurs.

She hangs up.

"Oh, my God."

* * *

_reviews are appreciated_


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